Lull
by CheckAgain
Summary: A lull in the room, and a strange event at a standard party. Nick/Gatsby. Slightly NSFW, but nothing graphic.


Nick lied passed out on the couch, wine glass having slipped from his fingers to the floor below. It was a common sight to see the man asleep at Gatsby's mansion during a party, his mind blackened by alcohol. One arm hanging off the couch, he slept peacefully despite the wild crowd writhing around him. No one seemed to pay him any mind.

No one except the host.

Gatsby had found him a little while back, smiling and rolling his eyes fondly at the familiar sight. He often worried that Nick went a bit too overboard at his parties, but it was good for him to let loose and have some fun; Lord knew the stoic man needed it. He had pulled up a chair beside the couch to keep an eye on him, content to watch and chat idly with the party-goers around him. A lone wine glass rested on the floor, a small pool of red at its bottom, the majority staining the carpet; perhaps he should fetch a servant before it stained. But Nick was out cold beside him and he was reluctant to leave.

The minutes ticked by and Nick was still asleep. Fireworks burst in the windows, stripping the room of guests looking for excitement. Now, only a few remained, some passed out as his friend, others coolly smoking cigars by the piano. Some player—not Klipspringer, he knew that right away—was tapping away at the keys, filling the quiet space with low, sensual notes.

Gatsby quite enjoyed these moments at his gatherings. They felt calming, more organic, less... he wanted to say 'fake', but opted for extravagant instead. There was less privacy in silent rooms, but that was made up for with intimacy. He found something comforting in strangers in a room, lounging and smoking without engaging one another. Humans in mutual presence just enjoying life in all its simplicity.

Nick snored suddenly, sharp and loud, and snapped Gatsby from his thoughts. He turned his head to watch him with fond eyes. Nick was, quite frankly, a mess. His normally slicked-back hair was askew, strands of hazelnut locks poking out here and there, and wine stained his black suit. An arm hung lazily over the side of the couch and he lied on his stomach, breathing softly against the warm fabric of the couch. And did Gatsby detect a hint of drool glistening on his lips? Nick could seem like such a child.

He would never tell him, but he found the man to be downright adorable at times, and now was certainly one of those moments.

The music lulled, precious little strokes of the keys as smoke hazed the room. Gatsby found he couldn't look away from his friend suddenly, deeply interested in, even entranced by his sleeping face. The soft curve of his eyebrows, drawing inwards occasionally as a murmuring fit passed; blue eyes concealed behind lightly shut lids, almost femininely long lashes caught in the still, delicate state of sleep; and of course, those glistening lips, no doubt soft and full with the taste of wine.

He righted himself, sitting up rigidly and fixing his overcoat. What was he doing, thinking such things about his friend? They were downright... queer, and self-disgust hit him like a punch to the gut. Perhaps the alcohol was getting to him; he loved Daisy after all, only Daisy, _his_ Daisy. And he wouldn't think these grotesque thoughts about his Nick.

... Nick. Just Nick. Not _his_ Nick. He sighed and rubbed his face tiredly. Perhaps he needed even _more_ alcohol.

"You're bein' greedy, tulips," Nick suddenly murmured. "Lilies... nee' some too..."

Gatsby blinked. He struggled badly to contain his laughter, raising a hand to his mouth as his shoulders shook with mirth. He couldn't tell if Nick was just dreaming or if he actually talked to his plants, though he wouldn't put it above the man; Nick spoke in great length when prompted of the time he whittled away in his garden. Gatsby had fleetingly considered starting his own garden before remembering he had no care for the activity. Maybe he had wanted one to have an excuse for Nick to come over.

But why did he need an excuse to invite him to his home? 

Gatsby stood, pacing a bit, hands clasped behind his back. He hated when this happened, when he had these strange thoughts about his closest friend. They were beyond reprehensible and if Nick ever found out, he would reject him immediately. He had visualized the moment perfectly: his face would go from shock to disgust in mere seconds, eyes narrowing and lips curling at such low, shameful, wretched behaviour, and he would never speak to him again. Gatsby couldn't allow that to happen.

And yet he found himself standing over his friend, studying those lips again.

He couldn't help it; Nick was just a very handsome man to him and there was nothing he could do to rid himself of that feeling. Daisy. Daisy was his love, his perfect, perfect love, absolutely flawless; unlike Nick, who drank to the point of excess one too many times, who talked to his plants, who found his nervousness around Daisy almost amusing; who was always there for him, who treated him like a human being and not just a dollar bill, who paid him favours expecting no change—whose eyes were bright blue pools he could drown in, whose lips...

He reached a hand out, pausing, hesitating before brushing a finger across Nick's bottom lip. The action startled him and his eyes widened, but he did not pull away, did not stop. His lips were soft as he had assumed, smooth pink lines against smooth white skin, and Gatsby's hand trembled. He was actually doing this. He was taking advantage of his friend's vulnerable state.

His disgust could not overcome his entrancement.

Nick murmured again, shifting his head, and Gatsby froze. Nick would wake up and recoil in shock and disgust and that would be it for their relationship. But Nick did not awake. Instead, he snuggled closer against the couch and licked his lips, tongue sliding over Gatsby's finger; Gatsby breathed sharply at the sensation.

Then, Nick took his finger in his mouth and began licking and sucking.

_Jesus Christ._

Gatsby stood, shocked, completely shocked at what was transpiring. Nick... was sucking his finger. Licking it, swirling around the fingernail and tip almost _teasingly_, swallowing, and the pull of his throat's contraction made heat rise to Gatsby's face. He was paralysed, frozen to the spot as Nick pulled him deeper, made a different heat strike him.

_No_. He was being perverse. This action was innocent. Nick didn't know what he was—

The man suddenly moaned, red brushing across his cheeks, and right then, Gatsby knew that Nick knew _exactly_ what he was doing. He stiffened in more ways than one, his skin burning so much he feared he would pass out. Was this—was this actually happening? He needed to stop this! It was entirely inappropriate for him to allow this... to—

Nick released him, kissing his fingertip, a string of saliva running from the point to his slick tongue, lips wet. Sighing contentedly, he buried his face back in the couch, heat gradually dying from his face. Gatsby retreated back shakily, nearly tripping over a table. He was dreaming—he was dreaming—

Daisy. Daisy was his love, his perfect, perfect love, absolutely flawless; unlike Nick, who...

He needed a cold shower.


End file.
